


Coffin for Two

by Taaroko



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-05
Updated: 2015-11-05
Packaged: 2018-04-30 04:58:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5151143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taaroko/pseuds/Taaroko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU from the episode “Angel.” What if the Darla in Buffy S1 had been more like the Darla in Angel S2? I think she can do better than framing Angel for attacking Buffy's mom, don't you?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coffin for Two

“We failed in our duty,” said the leader of the Three from his kneeling position between his brethren, “and now our lives belong to you.” He offered up a wooden spear to the Master, head bowed.

Before the Master could accept the weapon, Darla stepped forward, her expression calculating. “Wait,” she said.

The Master turned to face her. “If you are about to suggest that I pardon them, then perhaps they are not the only ones who need discipline.”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong,” said Darla. “I’d enjoy killing them as much as you would. But I have an idea of how I can take care of the Slayer _and_ make Angel regret his new allegiances all at once. It’s not something I can do alone, and I’d rather work with veterans than fledglings.”

“Hmm,” said the Master. “Go on.”

†

The first things Buffy became aware of were a dull throbbing in her head and a searing pain in her right forearm. She tried to move it and cried out as the pain level spiked sharply.

“Buffy?” croaked a familiar voice immediately to her right.

“Angel?” she asked. When the pain of her broken arm dimmed back down again, she registered several important facts about her location. She was horizontal, lying on some kind of soft material, it was pitch black, and there was something heavy and oppressive about the air around her. Also, she was in this place with the gorgeous mystery guy she’d just found out was actually a vampire. At this thought, she tried to sit up, but her head struck fabric after barely six inches. Confusion and panic rose like bile. With her left arm, she felt around, desperate to find something to disprove her horrible theory. Her exploration was cut short by more fabric-covered surface right next to her. Her breaths started coming much more rapidly and a buzzing noise started up in her ears, getting louder and louder. This couldn’t be happening. This was a nightmare and she was going to wake up, safe at home in her bed.

A cold hand clamped over her mouth. She tried to scream between Angel’s fingers and began thrashing violently, tears leaking out at the renewed pain this caused in her arm.

“Buffy!” his voice was louder than before, and through the haze of panic, she registered dimly that she must have missed the fact that he had already been talking. “Buffy, you have to calm down. You’re going to use up your air supply.” Buffy froze, realizing he was right. She tried to slow her breathing, but the awareness of her limited supply of oxygen only made the panic worse. “Come on, Buffy,” said Angel. “Breathe. Breathe.” He repeated the word at increasingly spaced intervals. Miraculously, she found herself breathing in time with it until she was back to her normal rhythm. “I’m going to let go of you now, okay?”

She nodded against his hand. He removed it. “What’s happening?” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I was on my way home from studying with Willow, and then everything just went black.”

“The last thing I remember, I was heading to your house to talk to you. Then I saw Darla and one of the Three, and then something hit me over he head.” He was silent for a moment. “She’s buried us alive.”

†

Angel watched Buffy’s eyes widen in horror in the pitch darkness. He wanted to pull her into his arms and comfort her, but he didn’t think she’d find that especially comforting at the moment.

“How are we going to get out of here?” she asked, her voice still hushed.

“I don’t know,” said Angel. “The sun just came up. I can feel it. I can’t dig us out until nightfall.”

“My air isn’t going to last that long, is it?” said Buffy.

“Probably not,” said Angel. If Darla had wanted to punish him, then she’d come up with a very effective way to do it. Buffy couldn’t dig herself out because of her broken arm, but she was going to run out of air long before the sun went down, so if _he_ tried to dig her an exit, he would burn to death and the soil would collapse behind him. Unless, by some miracle, Buffy’s friends managed to find them in the next couple of hours, Buffy was going to die, and Angel was going to have to watch it happen.

Buffy’s expression turned to anger. “Who’s Darla? Why would she do this?”

“She’s my sire,” said Angel. “She wants me back on her side.”

“Back?” said Buffy. “Then you aren’t now?”

“No,” said Angel. “I came to Sunnydale to help you.”

“Why would a vampire help the Slayer?”

He didn’t answer immediately. He thought of the long years of wandering, of staying under the radar of both human society and his fellow demons. Of the last two decades of chasing rats in sewers and alleys. He’d lived that way to punish himself. He’d believed that, for a damned creature like himself, it was the only option other than giving in to the demon inside him. Then, less than a year ago, Whistler had opened his eyes to a third option. He still wasn’t convinced that he deserved to be well fed, well groomed, and well dressed, living in his own place, but helping Buffy felt _right_ in a way that nothing else ever had. It brought glimmers of peace and conviction and purpose.

“For redemption,” he said at last.

He could see Buffy’s face. She looked puzzled by his answer, but not skeptical, and she no longer smelled of fear. A tiny well of happiness opened up in his chest at the hope that he hadn’t lost her trust forever because of what he was, but it was followed swiftly by a violent stab of hatred towards Darla for trying to take that away from him. When he made it out of here, whether or not Buffy was still alive, he was going to kill Darla and everyone she was working with.

Buffy grimaced, cradling her right arm against her chest, tears leaking out of her eyes. Angel’s resolve hardened at the sight. Even if he couldn’t get her out of here, he could at least make her more comfortable. He reached up to the coffin’s silk-lined lid and began tearing the fabric away in strips. At the first ripping sound, Buffy jumped, then let out a soft cry of pain when the movement jolted her arm again. “Wh-what are you doing?” she panted.

“I’m going to try to make you a splint,” he said. He had enough fabric now; he just needed wood. Instead of taking it from the lid, which would cause a shower of earth to rain down on their faces, he felt around the edges of the top of the box, then punched sharply at the corners. Buffy didn’t move while he was working, and he kept punching until he’d broken off a decent-sized strip of wood. A mildewy smell of soil filled the coffin as he wrapped the wood in some of the strips of silk so any jagged edges would be covered. Then he looked at Buffy. “Before I can tie the splint in place, I’m going to have to reset the bones. This is going to hurt. I’m sorry.”

“Just do it,” said Buffy through clenched teeth. He reached for her right forearm and probed along it as gently as possible until he found the break. His eyes on her face, he pressed down hard without warning. She screamed, but didn’t jerk away. The sound was like a dagger to his gut even though he’d achieved his goal. The bones were back in place. As quickly as he could while lying on his side and working in such a confined space, he bound the strip of wood tightly to her arm. When he finished, she moved the arm around experimentally, holding her breath. Then she let out a relieved sigh. “It’s better. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” said Angel.

It wasn’t until they both fell silent this time that he heard it. A dripping sound, coming from just a few feet away. It echoed, like the drops of water were falling in a hollow space. Then he heard skittering claws—a sound he would recognize anywhere after the way he’d recently been living. Rats. This sound also echoed. He gasped when he realized what it meant.

“What is it?” said Buffy sharply.

“Wherever Darla buried us, she must not have realized that it was right next to a utility tunnel. I can hear it.”

Buffy’s left hand shot out blindly. It took her a couple of tries, but she finally seized Angel’s arm. “How close?”

“Two feet. Maybe a yard,” said Angel.

“Can we get out that way?” said Buffy, sounding hopeful for the first time.

“We’re sure as hell going to try.”

† 

Digging was a slow and tedious process. The dirt in front of the coffin was damp and tightly packed. The upside to this was that even though it was difficult to dig through, it was very stable and unlikely to collapse. Angel used more pieces of the shattered front panel to scrape away at it. Whenever he succeeded in dislodging a clump of dirt, he would pass it to Buffy, who would throw it towards the foot of the coffin and pack it down with her feet. Due to their difference in heights, she had a lot of room to spare down there.

While they worked, Buffy asked him questions about his past. He told her about growing up in Ireland, about the many places he’d seen and languages he’d learned. He told her about the Gypsy curse and the difference between existing without a soul and with it. She listened to his stories with rapt attention, and he felt a strange sense of relief at finally sharing it with someone after all this time. He’d grown so used to solitude that he’d forgotten how good simple companionship could be.

He broke off in the middle of telling her what France had been like in the mid-nineteenth century. The jagged board he was using to dig had just struck concrete.

“What happened?” said Buffy. Her voice was excited, but weaker than it had been. She sounded tired even though her heartbeat was increasing. She was almost out of air.

“I reached the tunnel wall,” said Angel. He’d been making the hole he was digging wide enough to ensure that it would be easy to go deeper. Now, he scooted forward until the top third of his body was out of the coffin and inside the hole. He pressed his palms against the concrete, then drew back and slammed them into it with all his strength. Nothing happened—except that the bones in his arms jarred horribly against each other. He tried again. And again. Still nothing. It must be reinforced with rebar.

“Damn it!” he snarled, redoubling his efforts, but it was no use. Maybe Darla had done this on purpose, too. She hadn’t buried them by the tunnel on accident; she’d wanted him to have hope of getting Buffy out alive, just so he could fail here.

“Angel?” said Buffy. “What’s wrong?”

“I can’t break through,” he said. “I’m not strong enough.” His voice cracked, and moisture blurred his vision. There was nothing he could do to save her.

“What if you were stronger?”

There wasn’t room in the coffin and the hole he’d made for sound to echo, but her question seemed to ring in his ears all the same. He wiped his eyes on the back of his hand and shuffled awkwardly backwards into the coffin until his face was level with hers again. She had turned so that she was lying on her side. “What do you mean?” he said. He was afraid he already knew the answer. His demon was giddy with anticipation.

“Well, I’m pretty strong. I’m the Slayer,” she said dryly. It looked like she was struggling to keep her eyelids up. “But I can’t do much with that strength right now. So maybe you should take it.”

“Are you asking me to drink your blood?” he said. “That could _kill_ you, Buffy!”

“Maybe,” she said. “But I like my odds with you better than with the air left in this coffin.” Her eyes moved around blindly until they stopped almost exactly at the right place to be looking straight into his. “Take my blood, Angel. Then get us the hell out of here.”

His demon was dancing in triumph, but he ignored it for the time being. He reached up his left hand and cupped her cheek. A small smile formed on her lips. He leaned forward and covered them with his own. He kissed her for a long moment, and she kissed him back. When it ended, he pressed his forehead against hers. “I promise you I will get you out of here alive,” he whispered. He pulled her closer, careful not to jostle her splinted arm. He kissed her once on the side of her neck, then his features changed and he bit down. He tried to make it as painless as possible. She made a small noise and her body tensed when his fangs first entered her skin, but as soon as the blood began to flow, she relaxed.

Even though it had been almost a full century since he’d drunk fresh, hot human blood directly from the source, he knew without a doubt that he’d never tasted anything this good. From the very first swallow, he could feel the Slayer’s power coursing through his body. Somehow, the fact that it was willingly given affected the taste as well. Before the curse, he’d always made sure his victims’ blood was richly seasoned with fear. It had seemed to taste better that way. But perhaps that was just the sadism of the demon. There was no fear in Buffy’s blood. Instead, it tasted like…like affection. Shy, uncertain, but unmistakably strong affection. Not quite love, but it wouldn’t take much to grow into it. Was it possible that fear wasn’t the only emotion that had a flavor? Was he actually tasting her feelings for him? He held her tighter and drank more deeply. He never wanted to stop.

“Angel?”

Buffy’s voice was the faintest he’d ever heard. With a massive effort, he forced himself to pull away. Being cut off from her after that beautiful connection was worse than her scream when he’d reset her bones. It took him a moment to pull himself together, but he still had a job to do. He kissed Buffy on the forehead and set her gently back down on her side of the coffin. Then he surged forward into the hole and, his whole being humming with the power of Buffy’s blood, he slammed his right fist directly into the concrete. With an earsplitting _crack_ , it shattered, but still remained in place. He punched it again and again until the skin had torn completely away from his knuckles. Behind him, Buffy’s breathing was shallow and her heartbeat was faint.

“Come _on!_ ” he growled. With one more punch, the pulverized cement finally began to crumble away. A dim light appeared through a tiny gap, and damp, musty air rushed over Angel’s upturned face.

“Buffy! I made it through!”

No response. He moved back down into the coffin, wrapped an arm around her waist, and pushed her up into the hole. For a horrible second, nothing happened, but then she drew in a great gasping breath. Suddenly her barely-there heartbeat roared back into loud, regular action. Angel sagged with relief. She was going to be okay.

He waited until he could feel the new air in the whole coffin before he pulled her back down and resumed his position in the hole, not wanting to risk that it would cave in and cut off the air supply again. As he had suspected, the concrete was reinforced with rebar. After considerable additional effort, he succeeded in widening the hole in the tunnel wall until it was two feet in diameter, but they wouldn’t be able to get through it until he dealt with the ribbed steel X in front of him. Fortunately, he couldn’t smell anything but rat and mildew in the tunnel, and rats were the only things moving for at least fifty feet in either direction; this was not one often used by vampires.

With Buffy’s strength added to his own, he was incredibly strong, but this would still be a challenge. He gripped the upper right section of rebar tightly in both hands and began working it back and forth, pulling with his left and pushing with his right, then switching. It yielded noticeably, and before long, he was moving it several inches every time he changed directions. After what felt like half an hour, the muscles in his arms and shoulders stiff and aching, a crack opened in the metal beneath his right hand. He focused on that spot, and in another ten minutes, it broke all the way through. Next, he turned his attention to the upper left section and repeated the grueling process. When this one finally broke as well, he pushed on the spot where the two bars met, and it slowly bent outward into the tunnel. He kept pushing until the jagged ends pointed all the way down towards the tunnel’s floor. Then he bent the two pieces sticking out of the top forward until they were no longer in a position to catch on their clothing and skin, and at last, he wriggled his way out.

† 

Buffy heard an echoing thud as Angel fell to the floor of the tunnel. She realized that she could see for the first time since they’d been trapped down here, and she looked up. She could just make out Angel’s silhouette at the end of the hole he’d made. It was the most beautiful sight she’d ever seen in her life. She reached out her left hand. He clasped it and carefully pulled her out of the coffin and into the tunnel with him. Then he made as though to set her on her feet. “Don’t put me down!” she said, clenching her arm around his neck. “I don’t think I can stand right now.”

“I’m sorry,” he said at once. “I took more blood than I should have.” From what she could see of his features, he looked deeply remorseful. She almost burst out laughing at how absurd that was, and she had to fight back the impulse to kiss that look off his face.

“You just saved my life,” she reminded him. “You took enough to get us out, it barely hurt at all, and I’m even still awake. I’m just not sure I’d stay that way if any more blood rushed out of my head.”

Now that they were both out and there was actual light to see by, she noticed that they were covered from head to toe in dirt. She knew logically that that was what happened when you spent hours digging a hole, but it was still a little surprising to see. She felt overcome with a desire to take a long, hot shower and then spend the next couple of hours running around in an open field.

Angel was looking up and down the tunnel, his brow furrowed.

“Where do we go now?” said Buffy.

“Do you think you could climb a ladder if I took you to a manhole? I can’t tell where we are from down here. I’ve never been in this tunnel before, and I don’t want to risk going somewhere that would lead to more vampires.”

“I can try,” she said. He started walking, Buffy still cradled against his chest. As chests went, his was a very pleasant surface to be cradled against. To her slight disappointment, he didn’t have to go far before they reached a ladder. She looked up at the round hole above them. “I’m not gonna get my head squashed by a car if I poke it up through there, am I?”

“No,” said Angel with a small smile. “I can hear cars, but not directly overhead. You’ll probably come out on a sidewalk.”

“Okay, here goes,” she said. He set her down. She braced herself against him for a few seconds as a wave of dizziness washed over her, but then it cleared, and she started climbing. When she reached the top, she draped her right arm over the highest ladder rung and pushed the manhole cover out of the way. Her eyes immediately watered at the sudden blinding shaft of sunlight, and she closed them tightly while she clambered the rest of the way out. It took a minute for her vision to adjust to so much light, but eventually she was able to squint around and get her bearings. As Angel had predicted, she was on a sidewalk, and it was located on the perimeter of Restfield Cemetery. She climbed back down, replacing the manhole cover behind her, and found Angel waiting a few feet beyond the range of where the sunlight would have been.

“We’re just outside Restfield,” she said. “And that way is north,” she added, pointing.

“Good,” he said. “Then I think I know a safe route back to my place.”

“I’m coming with you,” said Buffy.

He looked surprised.

“I can’t just go home or to school looking like this. Mom’s going to be freaked out enough as it is because I never made it home last night. It’ll be better if I’m presentable when I make my appearance. Maybe I can convince her that I ended up sleeping over at Willow’s house so we could keep studying, and maybe Giles can get me an excused absence.” She grimaced. “And an extension on that history test. If I get lucky, as soon as Mom sees this,” she raised her splinted arm, “she’ll be so concerned that she’ll buy my story without questioning it.”

Angel chuckled, and Buffy felt herself smiling properly for the first time that day. “You can use my shower if you want,” he said. “And I’ll let you borrow some clothes while yours are in the wash.”

† 

It took about an hour to get to the apartment. As soon as they were inside and Angel flicked on the wall lights, Buffy’s eyes went wide with fascination and delight. “Wow,” she said. “Is this all stuff you’ve collected over the years?”

“Some of it,” he said. After Whistler had found him, he’d gone back for a few of his old things, but mostly the curios in his apartment now were recent antique store acquisitions. He liked having history around him.

He showed her where the shower was and gave her a white shirt and a pair of sweats from his wardrobe. An hour later, she emerged from the bathroom accompanied by a cloud of steam, a towel wrapped in her hair.

“It’s going to be very tricky to do my hair without a bathroom mirror,” she said, throwing him a rueful glance.

He smirked, trying not to think about how amazing it was to see her wearing his clothes. She’d rolled the cuffs of the sweats up several times just to get them up to her ankles, and she’d tied a knot in the bottom of the shirt. It was even harder to ignore the sight of the bite marks on her neck. They were already half healed, but the sight of them brought back the memory of how her blood had tasted and left him feeling extremely possessive. “I’m sure you’ll manage,” he said, hoping his voice sounded normal. He showed her how to work his washer before taking his turn in the shower.

When he shut the water off fifteen minutes later, he could hear her talking to someone on the phone.

“No, I just have a broken arm. I guess I won’t be able to go on patrol until that’s better.”

He couldn’t quite make out the other person’s words, but the voice sounded male and British. The Watcher, then.

“Well, if she thinks she’s going to get the jump on me again after that, she’s a moron. Broken arm or not, the next time I see her and her stupid bangs, I’m putting a stake through her heart.”

More indistinct British words. Judging from the tone, it sounded like he was advising caution. Angel began toweling off, pausing every time Buffy spoke.

“I know, I know. I won’t go looking for a fight until I’m back at a hundred percent. I just really want to see the look on her face when she realizes her plan didn’t work.”

Angel picked out his name from the Watcher’s next sentence.

“Yeah,” said Buffy. Her tone was much softer. “He saved me. He’s one of the good guys, Giles.”

A warmth that had nothing to do with the hot water spread through Angel. He finished drying himself quickly, got dressed, and stepped out of the bathroom. Buffy got up from his chair and turned to face him. “I’ve been on the phone with Giles. He’s going to fix everything with the school, and he’s passing the message on to Willow, so my cover story is all set.”

“That’s good,” said Angel. “What about your mom?”

Buffy’s face fell a little. “Giles said she called the school this morning to see if I was there. Hopefully she hasn’t tried to file a missing persons report yet.”

“If she has, it’s only because she’s worried about you,” said Angel. He grabbed the chair by his desk and dragged it over in front of the armchair.

“I know,” she sighed, sinking back into the armchair and crossing her legs in front of her.

“Have you ever thought about telling her the truth about you?” he asked.

“Only about a hundred times,” she said, leaning her head against her left hand, her right tucked securely against her middle. “But even if I could get her to believe me, it would probably just make her worry more. ‘Surprise! Your daughter isn’t a juvenile delinquent, she just has a sacred calling that puts her in mortal danger every night!’” She wrinkled her nose. “I know which one sounds better to me.”

“What do you want to do about Darla?” said Angel.

“What _can_ I do about Darla?” said Buffy, sticking out the elbow of her broken arm, looking grumpy. “I’m gonna be out of commission for at least a week with this stupid thing.”

“That’s a week I’m not going to give her. As soon as she finds out her plan didn’t work, she’ll be thinking up another one. Besides, she tried to kill you, and she tried to make me watch. I’m done playing live and let live with her.”

“You’re going to go after her alone?” said Buffy, her face full of concern. “But didn’t you say you saw her with one of the Three before you got knocked out?”

“I’ll be fine,” he said, “I can catch her off-guard. She won’t know her plan failed until tonight. I’m betting she’ll be back at Restfield as soon as the sun sets, and she’ll come alone. She’ll want a chance to gloat in private.”

†

Buffy didn’t like the idea of Angel facing Darla alone. The hours she’d spent trapped with him in that coffin had changed something. She’d felt drawn to him since the first time she saw him, whether or not she’d wanted to admit it to herself in the moment, and the attraction had grown steadily ever since. Now, though, there was a real connection between them. They’d both been victims of the same attack, and they’d survived it together. There was a unique kind of intimacy in an experience like that. She knew he felt it too—it was why he was rushing off to take down Darla without coming up with a solid plan first. It was also why she couldn’t let him risk his own life right after saving hers.

Darla was obviously clever and resourceful, or else she never would have been able to subdue both of them and get them buried in that coffin. What if she had already found out her plan failed? What if she ambushed Angel before he could ambush her? What if she _didn’t_ come alone?

However, before she could go helping anyone in fights against four-hundred-year-old vampire skanks, she was going to have to deal with her mom. After her clothes were dry, she reluctantly left Angel’s apartment and headed for the school. She managed to get all the way to the library without being spotted by any teachers, and she found Giles waiting inside.

“Buffy!” he cried, showing much more emotion than usual. “I’m so glad you’re all right after that ordeal.”

“You already knew I was all right,” she said, smirking. “That was the whole point of me calling you.”

“Yes, well, it’s one thing to hear about it,” he said gruffly, “but another thing entirely to see it for myself.”

“Angel’s going to fight Darla tonight,” said Buffy. Now that she’d gotten the obligatory Giles-teasing out of the way, she wanted to cut right to the chase.

“Alone?” said Giles. “Is that wise?”

“No,” said Buffy. “I’m pretty sure it’s not. But I also don’t think it’s something I can talk him out of doing.”

“Then how do you propose we help him?”

Buffy smiled. She’d had her doubts about Giles at first, and she still didn’t appreciate his insistence that she couldn’t balance slaying with normal fun teenager things, but when it really mattered, she knew he was in her corner. “I propose we go to Restfield Cemetery at sunset with as many weapons as possible. But first I need your help with Mom, and it might be better if I have a real cast on my arm when I see her.”

†

Two hours later (with the sun almost touching the horizon), they were pulling into Revello Drive. Buffy now wore a blue plaster cast on her right arm, which was also in a sling so that she wouldn’t move it until the plaster finished drying. The doctor had offered something a little more compact, but she liked the idea of a cast solid enough to double as a bludgeon until it came off. He’d said it would take six weeks to heal, but Giles estimated that with her healing abilities, she would only need the cast for a maximum of two.

They had barely parked in the driveway at 1630 when Joyce came bursting out of the house, looking frantic.

“Buffy!” she cried, seizing her daughter in a tight hug. “Oh my God, I’ve been so worried!”

“Mom, it’s okay,” said Buffy, but she didn’t try to escape the hug early.

“Why didn’t you come home last night? Where have you been? I called the school this morning, but they said you weren’t there. What happened to your arm?”

“Willow and I weren’t done studying last night, so I slept over at her house.”

“Well you should’ve called me,” said Joyce, her face still twisted with distress.

“I’m sorry,” said Buffy.

“And what about your arm? And missing school?”

“I’m afraid both are my fault, Mrs. Summers,” said Giles. “Buffy was shelving books for me in the library this morning before school started, and the ladder fell. She wasn’t at the school when you called because I’d already taken her to the hospital, but she didn’t want to miss any more classes, so I brought her back in the afternoon. I should have called to inform you, of course, and you have my sincerest apologies for that lapse in judgment.”

Joyce pulled Buffy into another hug. “Well, I’m glad she’s okay. Do I owe you anything for the hospital?”

“No, of course not,” said Giles, waving this offer away. “As I said, it was my fault she was on that ladder in the first place. I was happy to front the bill.”

“As long as you’re sure…?” said Joyce uncertainly.

“Entirely,” said Giles. “However, in all the commotion, Buffy did miss her history test. I’ve arranged with her teacher to allow her to make it up, but he’s insisting on doing it this evening.”

“He can’t even wait a day?” said Joyce. “Her arm is broken. How’s she supposed to write her answers?”

“Mom, it’s just multiple choice,” said Buffy. “I can do that much with my left hand until I get some practice writing with it. Can I just go and get this test out of the way? Willow and I studied for _hours_.” She gave her mom her very best wide-eyed pout.

Joyce hesitated, then sighed. “Oh, okay. Since all of this was just a failure to communicate. Maybe I should put that extra budget money into a pair of cell phones for us. You are not allowed to go missing for an entire day again, understand?”

“Yes, Mom,” said Buffy meekly. “I’m really sorry.”

With that, she let them get back into Giles’s car and drive off.

“Wow, I can’t believe that worked,” said Buffy. “Can I bring you along every time I think I’m about to get grounded?”

“Absolutely not,” said Giles, sounding irritable. “I could lose my job if it ever occurs to her to verify that little story with any other faculty member. Let’s not tempt fate by doing it again. And _please_ make sure you do well on that make-up test tomorrow.”

“Fine,” said Buffy, pouting for real this time.

† 

“I wonder how long a human can survive in a sealed coffin,” said the Master. He was in a very good mood. He’d been reluctant to let Darla use the Three again. They’d been loyal and useful servants for many centuries, but failure was not something he normally tolerated. However, thanks to the mercy he’d shown them, they had now succeeded in helping Darla trap the Slayer and that ensouled traitor. Perhaps he should start giving second chances more often. It was hard to find good minions these days.

“She’s dead by now for sure,” said Darla.

“What would you like to do with Angel?” said the Master.

“Oh, there are many things I’d like to do with him,” said Darla with a wicked smile. “But until he stops sulking over her death, I’m sure I’ll have to settle for gloating.”

“It’s about time to go and collect him, then, isn’t it?”

“It is.” She removed herself from her perch on the arm of his throne and started walking towards the tunnels. She glanced back over her shoulder. “Would you like me to bring back the body?”

“Yes,” said the Master. “A dead Slayer is just what my décor has been missing.”

She smirked and strode out of sight. After a moment or two, he glanced over at the Three, who had been standing at attention, their hands gripping the hilts of their unsheathed swords. “As delighted as I would be if killing the Slayer turned out to be as simple as that,” he said, “I wouldn’t want to leave anything to chance. Follow Darla, would you?”

“Yes, Master,” they replied in unison, then sheathed their swords and departed the same way Darla had.

“This day will go down in history,” said the Master, turning to face his Anointed.

“What will my role be now?” asked the young boy.

“Oh, I’m sure once I’m free, we can find the next Slayer. Does it really matter which one you lead into hell?”

†

Angel used the same tunnel he and Buffy had escaped through to return to Restfield Cemetery. The uncomfortable tingling he always felt on the back of his neck during daylight hours faded and vanished right when he reached the ladder Buffy had used before. The sun had set. He climbed up and emerged into the fading light of dusk. The stake hidden up the sleeve of his jacket scraped back and forth against his skin as he walked.

Finding the spot where he and Buffy had been buried wasn’t difficult. It was the only fresh double-wide grave with no marker. He found a nearby mausoleum and leapt up to perch on top of it. From this position, he had an excellent view of the entire cemetery and all of its entrances.

For about fifteen minutes, he waited. Then a lone petite, blonde figure arrived at the cemetery’s north gates and walked straight towards the double-wide grave. Angel alighted silently from the mausoleum’s roof and moved to join her in front of it. When she saw him, she froze, her eyes narrowing.

“I’m sorry, were you planning on getting here in time to see hands poking out of the dirt?” he said. He kept his tone light and mocking, but under the surface, he was furious. It didn’t feel entirely natural, either. There was more than one reason why he usually only drank animal blood, and the ability to better control his emotions was the second. The only reason he hadn’t already physically attacked Darla was that he knew it wouldn’t be long now. She needed to know exactly how much of her plan had failed before he killed her.

“It would’ve been entertaining,” said Darla. “So you got out early. How?” There was just the slightest hint of uneasiness in her tone. She had probably sensed that something was different with him.

“Utility tunnel,” said Angel, pointing to indicate the line along which the tunnel ran just past the head of the grave. “It made a convenient daytime escape route for us.”

Her eyes flashed with anger. So she _hadn’t_ done that on purpose. Interesting. “Then the Slayer’s alive,” she said.

“If she wasn’t, we wouldn’t be having this polite little chat,” said Angel. “But I think we’ve said everything that needed to be said.”

She moved first, trying to catch him with a sucker punch straight to the temple. Without looking, he caught her fist in midair. He turned his head slowly to meet her eyes, his grip tightening until bones began to crack. To his immense satisfaction, he smelled fear. She tried hitting him with her free left hand, but he blocked that too and threw her away from him. She collided with a nearby tree and fell to the ground. He stalked toward her. If he hadn’t been intimately aware of exactly how twisted and evil she was, the strong resemblance she bore to so many of his past victims might have made him hesitate.

†

“Can’t this car go any faster?” Buffy demanded, as she and Giles puttered towards the cemetery in his little gray Citroën.

“Not if I don’t want us to be even further delayed by a speeding ticket,” said Giles.

Buffy groaned and resisted the urge to bang her head against the window in frustration. Why did it have to be one of the cemeteries farthest from her house? And why did they have to hit every single red light on the way there? The sun had set at least a quarter of an hour ago.

They finally turned onto the last street. Buffy was the first one to spot the three hulking shapes making their way towards the same destination they were heading for. “Giles, there!” she cried, pointing with her left hand. “It’s the Three!”

“Hold on,” said Giles, and to Buffy’s surprise and delight, Giles floored the gas pedal and pointed the car directly at the central figure of the armor-clad trio. The three vampires saw the car coming, but Giles’s target—the one who looked like Fabio with fangs—didn’t react quickly enough to avoid it. His legs buckled as they hit, and his upper body slammed into the hood of the car. As Giles stomped the brakes, he went tumbling over the asphalt, coming to a halt thirty feet ahead, pieces of his armor and weaponry scattered between the car and his limp form.

Buffy sprang out of her door at once, clocking the nearest upright vampire with an uppercut to the chin as she went. Even though her left arm wasn’t quite as strong, the blow still lifted him off his feet. Over on the driver’s side, Giles engaged the other vampire with a bottle of holy water directly to the face. He screamed, his hands flying to cover his eyes.

†

“How are you this strong?” Darla gasped, angry and, unmistakably, afraid for her life. He’d blocked nearly everything she’d thrown at him and landed more kicks and punches. “You were never stronger than me.” She stumbled backward as he came toward her, staring at him in disbelief. Her eyes widened. “The Slayer. You fed off her so that you could escape from the coffin.” She started laughing. “So is she really still alive, or should I find a headstone for that grave?”

Angel only smiled. “Me feeding off her was her idea,” he said. “She was running out of air, but you broke her arm, so her only chance of escape was to make me stronger. I only took enough of her blood to get us _both_ out.” He let the stake slip out of his sleeve and brandished it at her.

Darla’s anger now overtook her fear. Her features shifted and she snarled. “Are you really going to kill me? You’ve had almost a hundred years with that soul and you think you can do it _now_?”

“I’ll admit I didn’t want you dead before. You were the most familiar thing to me, and for all the terrible things you’d done, I knew I was even worse. But all that ended the second you targeted Buffy.”

“You really are in love with her,” Darla spat. “A vampire in love with the Slayer. You’re disgusting!”

It was Angel’s turn to laugh. “You’re just bent because in the two hundred and forty-four years since we met, I’ve never felt that way about you.”

Darla screamed with rage and lunged at him.

† 

If Buffy and Giles hadn’t had the element of surprise (and a car) on their side, the fight probably would have gone very differently. Instead, even without the use of her dominant hand, her rematch against the Three was going much better than the first encounter had. Giles’s holy water attack had left Ponytail/Mustache Guy blind, Fanged Fabio was still curled up in the road after getting hit by the car, and Goatee Guy didn’t seem to be at his best fighting solo.

Buffy managed to get his sword away from him after dodging it twice. She blocked a couple of punches, then knocked his legs out from under him with a low sweeping kick. He scrambled for the sword on the pavement, but she drove her stake through a chink in the plate armor on his back. The body inside it turned to dust, along with the stake. She caught up the sword instead and spun around to see how Giles was faring.

Ponytail/Mustache guy was putting up an impressive fight for someone who couldn’t see and whose entire face was covered in massive blisters and welts. Buffy was about to run and help Giles, when Fanged Fabio, now recovered enough from being roadkill to join the fight, came charging at her. She waited until he was three feet away, then swung the sword. It cut right through his neck in one stroke, and he joined Goatee Guy as dust.

“Giles!” she yelled, running around to help. Ponytail/Mustache guy had Giles in a stranglehold and was leaning in to bite him. Buffy caught a fistful of his long black hair and yanked as hard as she could. He roared with pain and released Giles, who didn’t waste his chance. He scooped up the stake he had dropped and plunged it into the vampire’s chest, then leaned back against the side of the car, wheezing.

“I say. I really would have preferred them to have sacrificed their lives as their code mandated they should.”

“That’s what happens when you trust vampires to actually live by a code,” said Buffy.

“No one respects tradition anymore,” Giles muttered sourly.

“Are you good?” said Buffy.

“Yes, fine. The timely save was much appreciated.”

† 

“If you think you can be happy with that _cheerleader_ , you’re fooling yourself,” said Darla, lashing out with her nails rather than her fists, and succeeding in catching him one blow across the face. He staggered back, feeling the blood dripping from the scratches.

They continued their brutal dance, exchanging more blows while she kept up her attempts to taunt him. “Soul or no soul,” she said after landing a kick to his solar plexus that would’ve winded him if he’d needed the air. Still, she gained a few more feet of ground because of it. “Now that you’ve tasted her blood, you won’t be able to think about anything else when you’re with her. She might trust you now, but it won’t last.” She threw another punch. He dodged it, but then his back hit something solid.

Her hand closed over his throat. “In the end, _I’m_ the only one who’ll ever accept you.”

He broke her grip and twisted so that she was the one backed up to the tree instead of him. “I don’t want acceptance from you, Darla,” he said, and he drove the stake home. Her final expression was one of betrayal, before she crumbled into ash.

He stood there for a long moment, taking in the enormity of what he’d just done. He’d always thought that killing Darla would be like killing a part of himself. Now that he’d done it, he found that it wasn’t a part he was sorry to lose. He turned and started walking in the direction of the cemetery’s gates. Before he got far, he heard footsteps, and he stopped and looked up.

“Buffy! What are you doing here?”

“Well,” she said, still walking towards him, “I don’t want to say I told you so, but…”

“What do you mean? What happened?”

“Giles and I just took down the Three,” she said, very smug. She frowned. “Well, technically, Giles, his _car_ , and I took down the Three. How’d it go with Darla?”

“She’s dust,” said Angel.

Buffy was close enough now to get a good look at him, and her cheerfulness evaporated. “What did she do to you?”

“Why, is it bad?” he said, feeling the wounds on his face.

“It looks pretty bad right now,” said Buffy, lifting her hand to touch one of the scratches. “Does it hurt?”

He shrugged. “Stings a little.”

Her gaze shifted from his cheek to his eyes, and she smiled. “It’s been an exciting day, huh? Buried alive, escaping, you killing your sire, me killing the Three.”

He couldn’t resist. Buffy standing there in front of him, happy and healthy despite everything they’d just been through. It was too much. He kissed her. This one went on longer than either of their previous embraces. He could definitely get used to it. “I think I could do with a little less excitement for a while,” he said when he pulled away, a foreign sensation washing over him. Was it joy?

She beamed, then stood on tiptoe to resume the kiss.

 


End file.
